Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;
Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.
Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom;
Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride;
But within its parent's kindly bosom
Flowed for ever Life's restoring tide.
Little mourned I for the parted gladness,
For the vacant nest and silent song—
Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness,
Whispering, "Winter will not linger long!"